Page 31 of The Witch Queen

Russell still eyes the Prince with fear, but allows Hawthorne to place hands on his chest, where melted clothing sticks to his skin. Bright, warm light nearly blinds me. I look away, keeping my focus on the water I’m running across blistered skin. Russell gasps, and I look up. The light is gone, and Russell’s entire upper body has been healed. It’s not perfect, and he’ll still need additional treatment, but the skin is deep red instead of black. Water gathers in the Prince’s palms, and he briefly closes his eyes in concentration before setting his hands on Russell’s chest, allowing the water to soothe and heal the wound once more. When he’s done, Russell’s chest is pink, like he got a little too much sun.

“That’s incredible,” I murmur, reluctantly impressed. Prince Hawthorne doesn’t even react, just moves to Russell’s legs.

“It’ll be bright again. Close your eyes,” he commands. I do as he says, though he wasn’t speaking to me. Even with my eyes closed, I still feel the warmth of the light he conjures, can feel it soothing my own nerves. His body adjusts next to me, pressing him even closer against my side. I sigh contentedly, then immediately cough to hide the noise. When the light fades, I open my eyes to once again look at crimson skin. “How does that feel, Russell?” the Prince asks, his voice soft and kind. A piece of hair falls in his face, and I want to push it away. Instead, I stand, ignoring the squeezing in my chest.

“Th-thank you,” Russell says from the ground.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” the Prince croaks out, genuine emotion in his voice. “I’d like to help your family now, if that’s okay. Can I help your children?” Russell nods, and the Prince moves on to the first child. I can only watch, entranced by the gentleness of his movements. When her legs are healed, she wakes, screaming in fear and pain. Russell takes her hand while Prince Hawthorne smooths her hair back from her face.

“It’s okay, my angel,” Russell coos. “This is a Prince, and he’s going to heal you.” She stops screaming, though tears still run down her cheeks as she stares up at Hawthorne without fear in her eyes.

“You tell me if I need to stop, okay? Close your eyes, and when you open them, you’ll be better,” the Prince says in a soothing tone. Then he grabs her other hand and light flares, her small frame healing quickly, no need for his water magic. When the light fades, Russell wraps his arms around her, sobbing into her hair, ignoring his own skin. He grabs the Prince’s hand, shaking it, unable to say anything else. Prince Hawthorne only smiles brightly, no winks or smirks or disarming dimple in sight, before moving on to the young boy.

Once he finishes stabilizing the family with his magic, I aerstep them to the makeshift infirmary, where they’ll receive additional treatment. Before I leave to go back into the village, I overhear the Prince speaking with the little girl. “Are you really a prince?” she asks him in wonder.

“I am,” he responds with laughter in his voice.

“What’s it like being a prince? Do you have a princess you take care of?”

Prince Hawthorne chuckles. “No. No princess. Though maybe I need to find one. Being a prince comes with a lot of responsibility though. I have to take care of my people, care for them, and worry about them. Just like you probably do with your family.”

“Yeah,” she says joyfully. “Does that make me a princess?”

“I think it does,” the Prince coos.

I have to leave before I overhear more. I don’t want to think of the Velmaran Prince as the kind of male who talks to little girls about princesses after healing them with a gentleness I can only dream of possessing. I’m all hard angles and terse words, even when I’m trying my best, while he moves between every situation with ease. If I let him show me more of himself, it will make it too hard to make the right decision later. There may be more to him than the charming grins, but that doesn’t change my plans. I will not forget who sired him, and to whom he will have to report back to when this is all over if I let him leave Thayaria.

Diving back into the fray, I find at least a dozen more people to help. Stab wounds, severed limbs, more burn victims. My fury ignites with every person I save. I get occasional glances of the Prince. He works as diligently as me, but quicker, though I don’t want to admit it. Gone are his simpering looks and sarcastic smiles. Face smudged with soot and shirt soaked through with sweat, this Prince is compassionate and kind. When I catch him carrying a little girl in his arms with tears running down his cheeks, her limp and pale body telling me everything I need to know about the situation, my chest tightens.

We continue this way for hours until the final count of injured is closer to sixty. Thankfully, the only death is the one child, though any death is catastrophic in my eyes. After we’ve combed every building for survivors, Prince Hawthorne and I return to the makeshift infirmary, helping where we can.

A man across the field starts yelling frantically. “You,” he roars. “You’re one of them! You stabbed my wife.”

I’m there in an instant, willing the grass to grow and wrap around the suspect. The screaming man breaks into sobs while a healer comforts him. Prince Hawthorne and Carex appear at my side, Carex’s sword drawn and the Prince’s hands lit up with light, though Hawthorne looks infinitely more at ease than Carex.

“Are you part of the Sons and Daughters rebel group?” Carex demands. I don’t expect the accused to admit to it, but he surprises me.

“I am,” he spits. “I came here to give you a message.”

Fearing he’ll hurt the group of injured, I aerstep the rebel, Carex, Prince Hawthorne and myself to the other side of the village with no warning. They all look surprised when we reappear under a massive oak tree.

“Witch,” the rebel hisses. I only pin his arms to his side with ivy, tying him to the tree, today’s events giving me little patience for this nonsense.

“I’m not in the mood. I’m a Witch, you hate my rule, you’re going to make me suffer. I’ve heard it all. What’s your message, rebel?” I ask, the cold fury in my voice palpable.

“This attack is only the beginning, Witch Queen. Any village, any fae or human, who supports you, or who receives aid from you, will pay,” he warns.

I was already on the edge of losing control, my emotions a swirling landscape of fury, anguish, and hopelessness. This admission sends me into a storm of rage, all other emotions eclipsed by my need topunish.Rational thought leaving me, I pierce one of his eyes with a small tree branch, and he screams, trying to slump to the ground, but the ivy keeps him upright. Air wraps around his throat, squeezing as if hands were choking him. At the same time, thin twigs creep into his ears and up his nose.

“Tell me what you have planned, and I’ll consider killing you quickly,” I say, forced boredom in my voice, though internally I’m screaming.

“I won’t tell you anything,” he murmurs, despite the blood running down his face.

The sword from Carex’s hand flies toward the man at my command, and I will it to slice a deep gash across his stomach. Grass burrows into the wound as the rebel’s screams of pain reach an inhuman pitch. I make another slice on his thigh, then have a large tree branch whip across the wound. Silent heaves wrack the rebel’s body now.

“Have you changed your mind?” I ask.

“N-n-never!” he whimpers. I pierce his other eye, completely blinding him. I’m lost in the thrill of my power, lost in my righteousness. Something within me urges me on, so I flood his lungs with water.

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